


Living Memory

by ProtoNeoRomantic



Series: Patch Works [26]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Backstory, Ambiguous Relationships, Dysfunctional Family, Family Secrets, Gen, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, implied past sexual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3803065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/ProtoNeoRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The is an alternate version of Faith and Doug's first scene from Who Do You Think You Are? chapter 9: "Karma" that I forgot ever existed, and which might have taken that relationship in a totally different direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Who Do You Think You Are?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235281) by [ProtoNeoRomantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/ProtoNeoRomantic). 



“So,” Dr. Ericson asked as his masked captor pulled the dead bodies of what looked like a couple of commandos out of the front seats of a nearby van and dumped them like feed sacks on the garage floor, “what’s on our agenda for tonight?”

“I’m going to kill you,” she said matter-of-factly. “Get in.” Douglas complied. He didn’t bother to point out the problems with her incentive system. She didn’t need his cooperation to complete her stated objective. She merely wanted it as an aid to satisfying whatever curiosity had kept him alive this long.

For a moment he contemplated the idea that it might be sexual curiosity. He was a damned sexy SOB if he did say so himself, and the white coat did it for a lot of girls, though admittedly, mostly the kind of girls who thought keeping people alive was important. Physically, this girl was hot as hell, at least from the neck down. But Douglas couldn’t quite stomach the idea of having sex with his own murderer, or anybody else’s for that matter. He noted the presence of three bodies in the cargo area behind their seats, which made seven to her credit tonight that he knew of.

Which tended to suggest that he might not have a lot of choice about satisfying her curiosity, whatever it was, as long as not dying remained his top priority. Douglas felt suddenly agitated and uncomfortable in his own skin. It had been a very long time since he’d considered that he might be in any real danger of being raped. If push came to shove, he might have to change his priorities soon. Soon, but not yet. Hell, for all he knew she might be the emissary of some bizarre underground warlord who just really happened to need a good Oncologist.

‘When in doubt, ask,’ his mother had always said. “So, why do I get the short straw?” he demanded, sounding a little angrier than he meant to and a lot less scared than he felt.

“The wages of sin,” said the masked killer sardonically.

“In that case,” said the doctor dryly, “I recommend napalm. Or nerve gas if you can get it. This seems a little more focused than that.”

“You screwed my mother,” the girl clarified, “just about nine months before I was born.” Oh. Damn. Are there lumps in your instant karma?

“Believe me,” Dr. Ericson said, “I am kicking myself.” His mind was racing. Who the hell was this girl?

“I bet I can kick harder,” the girl said with a kind of viscous cheerfulness. Assuming she had her facts straight she literally couldn’t have been more than sixteen (not unless April Fogerty was a damn sight better at keeping a secret than he’d ever had any reason to suspect). From the look of her, she couldn’t have been much younger either.

“So I take it you’re not enjoying the being alive all that much then?” No real possibilities the summer after high school. Freshman year at UCLA?

His captor shrugged. “It is what it is,” she said with genuine sounding indifference. It had to be freshman year.

“Some of my patients are pretty fond of it,” he said, “if that means anything to you.” September 1981 to May 1982, which would actually make the girl only fifteen. Douglas had a lot of sperm unaccounted for in that time period.

The girl laughed out loud inside her leather hood and slapped him on the back affectionately. “That’s a good one,” she said, “tell me another.” For an instant Douglas felt a vague sense of alignment with this kid who very well might be his kid, a mild, involuntary well-wishing in her direction. Hard on the heels of that was a wave of anger and disgust at both her and himself, underscored by a nauseous dread of death.

“So what the fuck makes you think I’m Mr. Lucky?” he demanded. “I don’t have a fucking clue who you’re mom is actually, which kind of makes me think we’re talking more of a party situation than anything on the monogamous side of the spectrum, no offense.”

“None taken,” the girl assured him matter-of-factly, “my mom was a drunk slut.”

Douglas was incredulous. “So why in the name of Hades do you plan to kill me you crazy bitch!?!”

The girl slapped him casually, effortlessly on the nose the way you would swat a dog with a rolled up newspaper. His face exploded in pain. Suddenly his nose was broken and bleeding. “I don’t like being called a bitch,” she said quietly, calmly.

“Well _I_ don’t like being held hostage and threatened with death!” Douglas squawked nasally. “I don’t like having to pretend along with you that _my_ _murder_ doesn’t really matter, ’cause it sure as shit matters to me! I mean, what the fuck is your diagnosis!?! I don’t want to die! So if it’s not too much trouble, could you please tell me what ‘drunk slut’ I’m accused of knocking up and what the evidence is against me?”

The girl shook her head. “You just don’t get it,” she said. He could hear the smile in her voice, in fact there was some aspect of her voice that sounded familiar, but he still couldn’t place it. “I don’t _care_ which of you has the fastest swimmers. I’m erasing an event from human memory. You were there. That’s enough.”

“Where, Goddamnit!?!” Ericson demanded. “When was I there!?!”

“South Boston,” she said a sudden edge to her voice, “Friday night. April 10th to 11th, 19—”

“1981,” Douglas finished the sentence with a kind of horrified awe. Suddenly he was sadder than he had ever been at any time in his life. Sadder even than on April 11th 1981\. “Jesus Christ, Faithy,” he gasped “have you got it all wrong! I never screwed Lennette! She was my mother!”

 


End file.
